


The Sun Rises Over Corvo Bianco

by busdriver



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Cunnilingus, F/M, Gags, In my smut? Its more likely than you think., M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Tender Sex, The Worst Thrupple Ever, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, theres a lot going on here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25105753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busdriver/pseuds/busdriver
Summary: Melitele herself could float into the room, in all her buxom majesty, offer him wine and virgins for all eternity and he would turn her down.Nothing could compare tothis.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 208





	The Sun Rises Over Corvo Bianco

**Author's Note:**

> Was this just my way of writing about Corvo Bianco? Maybe.
> 
> spot my weirdly specific dragon age 2 reference

Summer in Toussaint was balmy, enveloping in its warmth. Even as day folded into night heat clung to the walls of Corvo Bianco making Jaskier tug at the laces of his doublet.

“I’m not comfortable doing this _here,”_ he says and gestures to the wall.

Yennefer puts her hands on her hips, follows the wave of his hand. There’s a portrait of Ciri on the wall _,_ wearing heavy dress festooned with ruffles and frills and she is clearly _furious_ about it. “I agree,” she says. “I don’t know why Geralt insists on hanging this painting in his bedroom of all places. It would be far funnier to have it in the landing as the first thing one sees upon entering.”

“He said it’s nice to wake up and see his family,” Jaskier muses, then turns to another painting of the four of them, Yennefer, Ciri, Geralt and himself posing in the Oxenfurt University gardens. A painting that took far too long for the artist to complete – mostly because none of them could maintain a stern façade long enough to be captured. Most days, it made his heart swell, leaving him feeling warm and floaty. To be so loved, to be displayed on the wall of Geralt’s home like a treasure. To be called _family._ It was almost unbearable.

However, right now, he’s very aware of another _warmth_ in his body. A feeling that is distinctly located in his loins.

This was his first time at Corvo Bianco and Yennefer had _plans._

An ornate box sits atop the dresser in front of them _,_ embellished with gold leaf and purple trimmings. Yennefer’s box of _Wonders._ Every time the three of them came together Yennefer had something new to show off. His mouth goes dry whenever he thinks about it. 

Yennefer shrugs. “Guest bedroom?”

“I _guess…”_ He sucks his teeth for a moment. “Doesn’t Eskel usually stay there?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Would you prefer the wine cellar, Jaskier?”

He gawks at her. “It is _cold_ and _damp_ in that cellar, Yennefer. And there are probably still vampire guts down there, absolutely not.”

“Sheets can be washed – and I imagine they have been since Eskel’s last stay. I can’t imagine you and Geralt were exactly spoiled for choice on places to fuck on the Path, so you cannot expect me to sympathise with you when we are here, in Geralt’s lawful home, _spoiled for choice.”_

“That’s not the point, it’s the principal of the thing.”

“Jaskier.” She levels him with a stern glare. “I seem to recall a point in your life where you _enjoyed_ fucking in other people’s beds. In fact, I recall that being an integral part of your persona.”

He cocks his head at her. “Oh Yennefer, you _do_ listen to me when I talk.”

She prods him. “Upstairs, Bard. Or I shall tie you up and leave you in the cellar for the vampires.”

*

“Open,” she says, and he does. She slides a knotted scarf between his teeth and steps back, admiring her handiwork.

She had made good on her promise to tie him up – however this time there was no mention of vampires. Rather, she had leaned over him and murmured: _‘gift wrapping.’_

Geralt had left to tend to a poncy Lord’s vineyard, supposedly infested with Rotfiend’s. He had assured both Yennefer and Jaskier he would return soon – but _soon_ in the world of Witchering was a nebulous concept – and _soon_ when Yennefer had Jaskier bent over a chaise lounge with his arms tied, wrist to forearm, cockring snug against his base, was not _soon_ enough.

Yennefer is wearing nothing but a black, silk robe, tied loosely at her waist. The fabric shifts and moves with her body and he traces the curve of her with his eyes. So fluid and powerful, he can’t quite believe that she is real.

A bottle unstoppers. The smell of lavender wafts over to him and he shivers. She settles next to him on the chaise. “Look at me,” she says, “hold up one finger if you’re uncomfortable, two if you want me to stop, at any point, Jaskier.”

He nods. She touches a finger to his forehead. “Even if I can’t see your fingers I will know.”

She lathers her fingers in oil and stands once more. “You know I intend to keep you like this until Geralt returns, don’t you?” He closes his eyes and lets out a petulant grunt. She laughs. “I seem recall a terrible wastrel of a Bard singing about something like this, you know.” A finger circles his rim. “What was it? _Weak_ and _wanting?”_

He turns his head, to meet her violet eyes and glares at her. She smiles, expression flippant, amused. “Something to say?”

She pushes her finger into him and his eyes flutter closed. “I thought so.” Her finger vanishes up to the knuckle and she massages his walls, ever so gently. And he knows, with world destroying clarity, that she could do this _all night._ Work him open with just one or two fingers, while his poor cock weeps, neglected. Geralt could arrive home, luxuriate in a bath, and he and Yennefer would make love. They could ravish one another until the sun rose and leave Jaskier just to watch and _wither._

“Do you want to come on my cock or his?” Her words knock the wind out of him. “Perhaps both… _Neither?”_ She hums, and he lets out a strangled sob. “Please, Jaskier. Use your words – or I may have to assume the latter.”

He garbles out a muffled: “don’t you dare.”

She chuckles, crooks her finger. “How many people have you cuckolded in your illustrious career, hm? Would it not be _fair_ to shift things around for once? Leave you bereft and _wanting_?”

A second finger joins the first and he buries his head in the fabric of the couch.

“It would be an appropriate penance, would it not? I would be your _garrotter, jury and judge.”_ She punctuates each word of his song with a thrust of her fingers. 

A third finger joins the others and he bucks his hips and whines when she presses against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“How’s my _current?”_ she whispers.

Yennefer spends an indecent amount of time simply massaging his prostate, twisting her fingers, alternating the motion, never settling into a distinct rhythm.

He _aches_ and keens as she works, precome dripping onto the floor below, there is nothing for him to rub his devastatingly hard erection on all he can do is _feel_ her and sweat under her heat.

He doesn’t hear the front door open. Doesn’t hear Geralt’s heavy gait travel up the stairs. Doesn’t hear anything until Yennefer’s hot breath tickles his ear: “look up Bard, our Wolf is home.”

Geralt stands in the landing, pupils blown, mouth agape. Warmth pools in Jaskier’s gut. 

“Welcome home, love,” Yennefer says, sliding her fingers out of Jaskier. “Come.” She gestures to him and he blinks once more before coming to settle on the chaise next to Jaskier’s head – posture rigid, limbs awkward.

“No injuries?” she asks, and moves to sit next to him, ghosting her fingers over his armoured body.

“None.”

“Rotfiend’s are usually such foul work, I expected you would require a bath.”

“There weren’t any Rotfiend’s,” he says, “just children playing a prank.”

“Oh? That’s too bad. I thought I’d spend more time teaching Jaskier some patience.”

Jaskier grunts.

Geralt’s lips quirk.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay _,”_ she confesses. And Jaskier knows the concern in her voice is genuine. He’s felt that ache so many times. He had spent years simmering in worry every time Geralt left, constantly worrying that this hunt would be the last. The only thing that had helped him was the sheer amount of time he and Geralt had spent together. Yennefer didn’t have that.

She places a chaste kiss on Geralt’s cheek. “I could fucking _smell_ you both…” he whispers.

Jaskier nuzzles his head into Geralt’s leather clad thigh and looks up, winks.

He’s not too far gone to lose his performative edge.

_Yet._

Yennefer hums. “Thought I’d set up a nice gift for you when you got home, considering you so graciously allowed us to stay here.”

Yennefer stands and settles back into her position behind Jaskier. Geralt sucks in a breath as he looks down at them both.

Jaskier leans forward to nose at the bulge in Geralt’s pants and Yennefer unties the knot behind his head, removing the gag.

“Glad you’re back,” Jaskier breathes, voice slightly hoarse.

Geralt swallows, reaches to unlace his pants, fingers almost frantic to tug at the knots.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Yennefer coos, taking his hand in hers. “Surely our _very skilled_ Bard is capable of doing this himself.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, bristles. He _is_ skilled. It’s something he’s done before. Though generally he’s aided by the use of his hands. He looks up a Geralt and rolls his neck. He licks a stripe up the seam of Geralt’s pants and swirls his tongue over the thickening bulge. Geralt shifts and Yennefer drops her chin on his shoulder, drawing circles on his back with her fingers.

Jaskier tugs at the laces with his teeth, but the knot is tight and he ends up snapping his teeth together more than once trying to pull the strings apart. Yennefer tuts.

“Don’t be cruel Yen,” Geralt says.

She chuckles again, nips at Jaskier’s ear lobe. “I’d hardly call this cruel.”

 _“I_ would,” Jaskier murmurs. Yennefer snorts and pinches his hip.

With a roll of his eyes, Geralt pushes Jaskier’s head away and easily releases ties, allowing his cock to spring free.

“Now Bard,” Yennefer says, “you suck his cock like your life depends on it.” 

“In a way, Yennefer dear, it kind of does.”

He leans forward, drags his tongue along the underside of Geralt’s cock and Geralt grunts. Jaskier locks eyes with him and swirls his tongue around the head.

Geralt was infuriatingly silent during sex, something Jaskier had spent their entire sexual history trying to rectify. Every time they fucked, Jaskier made a point of learning about Geralt’s body, find some new way to actually make him moan and garble and _speak._ Though, usually that meant sticking a finger or two up Geralt’s arse but that option wasn’t available at the current moment.

So instead he works Geralt over with his mouth. Trails open mouthed kisses down Geralt’s length, suckles the head, breathes him in. Never once breaking eye contact.

“Oh… _Jaskier,”_ Geralt keens, and Jaskier waggles his eyebrows.

Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier eases the length into his mouth. He takes Geralt all the way into the back of his throat, pauses for a second to adjust and _swallows._ Geralt arches his back with a cry, pushes his hips forward just slightly, and Jaskier moves with him.

Jaskier pulls back, hollows his cheeks. Then takes the Geralt down his throat once again. Geralt lets out a long, low moan, closing his eyes and letting his mouth fall open.

Jaskier sets up a slow rhythm. He’s so focused, so determined to wring every sound he can out of Geralt that he doesn’t notice Yennefer moving behind him, doesn’t notice her hand until it’s lazily tugging on his own cock. He whines in response. 

“Come on, Bard,” she coos, “stop teasing.” 

Her hand moves to the back of his neck, pushes him forward, guides his movements, until his nose meets Geralt’s pubic hair. Geralt’s hips buck sharply and Jaskier gags. He pulls off Geralt and coughs.

A collective silence falls over them, both Yennefer and Geralt drop their hands from his head and concern flits over Geralt’s features. 

“Bard?” Yennefer says.

He looks over at her, tears in his eyes, and grins. “’S been a while since that happened.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts. There’s a big, fat ‘ _I’m so sorry, I don’t know my own strength,’_ coming and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Geralt. I’ve lost count of the amount of cocks I’ve choked on.” He shrugs. “It happens.” His head is still hazy – but never let it be said that the famous Jaskier wasn’t eloquent in the bedroom.

Jaskier licks his lips, and looks up at Geralt. He raises an eyebrow when he sees Geralt is still frowning. “Are _you_ okay to keep going?”

Geralt looks away. There’s a moment where he thinks Geralt _does_ want the whole night to end there and his heart clenches. He would accept that, truly he would. Jaskier would spend the rest of his life convincing Geralt that he was worth love, worth _this_. That sometimes over-eager Bards choke on your monster cock – it _happens._

He just might need a very cold bath before that conversation, however.

“Geralt,” he says, “look at me.” He drops his chin on Geralt’s knee. “Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, eyes still fixed on the corner off the room.

“Geralt of Rivia? _Apologising?_ Are you sick? Feverish? Should we find a medic?”

“Jaskier,” he warns.

“Geralt,” Jaskier retorts. Then he slumps. “I accept your apology. And I promise that I am fine. _And_ I would very much like to continue if you are amenable.”

And Geralt, ridiculous, absurd, _wonderful_ Geralt, takes Jaskier’s face in his hands and just stares at him, hard lines softening.

Jaskier kisses his palm in kind.

Then he drops his hands, turning to look at Yennefer. “Will you help me get out of my armour?”

Jaskier beams.

Yennefer stands and says: “of course.”

The armour comes off slowly, piece by piece, and Jaskier watches as Geralt’s layers away from his body to lie on the floor. Watches as scarred flesh is exposed to the humid air. 

Yennefer looks over her shoulder once or twice to shoot Jaskier a glance that says: ‘ _Jaskier, I am a cruel Witch and I will take as long as I please to do anything because your suffering is paramount in this scenario.’_

Or something like that.

Despite their brief, slightly unsexy, interlude, Jaskier finds he is still painfully hard and absolutely desperate to have one of them touch him again.

He flexes his hands, testing the bonds. The rope is soft, but the knots are tight. Not so tight that they cut off his circulation, but tight enough he has no chance to free himself. 

The last of Geralt’s clothes fall away and he strides over to Jaskier, hefting him up with one arm. Jaskier squawks.

“You _brute!_ I am a delicate _flower!_ A Dame!” Geralt drops him onto the bed and he lands on his back, legs hanging over the edge. “Mere seconds ago you were so concerned about my welfare and now you fling me like a bail of hay!”

“Ridiculous,” Yennefer sniffs, “and you oppose me gagging him.” She points at Geralt, who simply shrugs.

“I prefer it when he talks.” Geralt says. The tips of Jaskier’s ears turn red.

Yennefer rolls her eyes and slides her robe off her body. All Jaskier’s complaints die on his tongue. She truly is a sight to behold. All endless plains of soft skin that seem to glow in the candle light. It makes him want to avert his gaze in reverence, as if it is a sin how much he wants her.

He doesn’t, of course, but it’s the thought that counts.

“I’d like to come at some point before the end of the century,” she says and comes to lounge on the bed next to Jaskier. She wiggles her fingers and her magical box appears in her palm. 

She trails a finger down his front, toys with his chest hair.

“You want this, don’t you?” she says, balancing the box on three fingers.

His silver tongue melts in his mouth. All he can do is stare at her. 

“Not yet, sweet thing.” She pats his stomach. “Our Wolf hasn’t even come once.”

*

“You are aware that this is the literal definition of cuckholding,” Jaskier huffs.

“Good,” Yennefer shoots back.

Geralt is straddling his thighs, arms splayed out on the wall beside his head as Yennefer slowly works into him. She’d produced a sleek, black phallus from the box and slid a harness onto her waist. A phallus that was now sheathed inside Geralt's heat. 

Geralt grunts in time with her thrusts, moaning as she fucks into him.

It was agonising – watching Geralt come apart and being forced to just watch. He wants to reach out, _hold_ Geralt as Yennefer fucks the tension out of his body.

But alas, Yennefer had followed through on her promise to keep on the edge. The ring, still tight against his base, seems to pulse in time with her thrusts.

It truly was some kind of _foul_ sex magic, the kind that the Witch Hunters in Novigrad denounced so harshly.

Geralt grunts and drops his head to capture Jaskier’s lips in a needy kiss. All tongues and teeth, with Geralt moaning and gasping softly into Jaskier’s mouth. And Jaskier melts into the wall, into Geralt’s mouth.

Yennefer murmurs to Geralt as she rolls her hips. Sweet nothings that float through the air like plumes of smoke. 

He releases their lips and buries his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Yennefer circles her arm around his body, strokes his length with an oil slicked hand.

He moans into the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder and the vibrations reverberate through Jaskier’s body. The ring pulses faster and faster and he hisses, catching Yennefer’s eye. She smirks at him and thrusts particularly hard. 

Geralt drops his arms and the only thing holding him up is his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. He grits out a string of _‘fuck, fuck, fuck,’_ and whines. Jaskier doesn't need a Witcher's sense of smell to know that he's sitting on the edge of climax. 

“Let go,” Jaskier manages to whisper and Geralt’s body goes taut. He comes with a strangled cry, shooting his spend onto Jaskier’s chest.

He stays like that for a moment – head resting on Jaskier’s shoulder as Yennefer pulls out of him and she runs a soothing hand down his back.

Geralt rolls onto his side, a languid smile spreading across his features.

And then, he has the audacity, _the nerve,_ to _wink_ at Jaskier.

Jaskier gapes, mouth falling open.

“Did you just- _Yennefer-”_

“I saw nothing,” she says but her eyes are twinkling.

He groans and leans his head back against the wall. He’s been so hard for so long it doesn’t feel humanly possible. His cock might just fall off at this rate.

“Yennefer,” he says, sterner this time.  
  
“Jaskier,” she retorts.

“Yennefer, my dearest. Beautiful, _powerful_ Sorceress whom I both love and cherish. Is there a way we could come to accords?”

Geralt snorts. _“Accords,”_ he mumbles before letting his eyes slip closed.

“We could.” She unclasps the harness, letting it slide away from her hips and crawls over to him. “But I want something from you, first. Turn around.”

The blood drains out of his face to pool in his gut. He does his best to wiggle around and she plucks at the knots, allowing them to ease away from his flesh. He rolls his shoulders and flexes his hands.

She drops onto her back, head coming to rest on Geralt’s hip and she spreads her thighs, making a ‘come hither’ motion with her finger.

He feigns ignorance. Points at himself and mouths _‘me?’_ “What could you possibly want from _me?”_ he asks. “I am but a lowly cuckhold.”

“Keep talking like that and you will be.”

He rolls his eyes and moves over to her, stopping to plant a kiss on the side of her knee. He trails down her thighs, taking his time to suck on her flesh. Never biting. Never leaving a mark. She hums, lazily toying with his hair. He works his way up the other thigh and back down again, he is determined to take his time, make _her_ languish under his arduous pace. Make her keen and want and need.

He slides a hand underneath her, breathes in the musky scent of her arousal.

He takes his time teasing her, rolling his tongue over the outer layers of her cunt, traces patterns into the soft flesh. Never once touching her clit. 

“You are trying _so_ hard to rile me up, aren’t you?”

She waves her hand and the ring around him pulses, _vibrates,_ against him and he has to stop and gasp. Steel himself.

He sucks in a shaky breath and proceeds to exhale, directly onto her clit. She arches her back in response and he slides a finger into her slick entrance.

His teasing doesn’t last long, however. After a minute or so, she grabs his head and pushes him down, closes her thighs around his ears. And the vibrations around him don’t stop this time.

So, he works. Sucking and licking with increased fervour, moaning into her flesh every now and again.

Her clit twitches and she clenches around his finger. She’s close. He slides another finger inside of her, increases his pace slightly, and crooks his fingers up.

Her thighs turn into vices around his head and she cries out. He pumps and sucks her through the aftershocks until she releases him with a gasp.

She pats his head and the vibrations stop. He collapses and groans. 

"Will this incentivise you to write another scathing ballad about me, Bard?" Yennefer asks. 

Geralt huffs a laugh.

“It might," Jaskier says. 

Geralt shifts into a sitting position, deftly moving Yennefer's body so she is nestled between his thighs. He leaves a soft kiss on her shoulder and she laces their fingers together.

“Ready for round two?” she whispers, lips curling into a smile.

Geralt chuckles, trails his fingers down her front, teasing a nipple as he goes.

“Are you?” Geralt asks.

She hums. “I could be.”

Geralt runs a finger down her slit, and she arches up, still clearly sensitive from her first orgasm.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Geralt says.

She moves her head, black curls grazing Geralt’s chest. “You can’t hurt me, Witcher.”

Jaskier watches as Yennefer guides Geralt’s hand to her cunt, still slick with his saliva. A finger circles her clit and she lets out a soft gasp.

Geralt’s eyes flick up to meet Jaskier’s and he feels like he’s been punched. Taking her apart was one thing, _watching_ her come undone was another thing entirely.

She liquesces as he works, allows herself to melt. She slides a finger into her entrance and matches Geralt’s rhythm, instructing him when to speed up and slow down. Geralt’s other hand roves the curves of her body, messages her breasts.

Jaskier wills himself to be still. He’s twitching and aching, desperate for anything, _anyone_ to just touch him. Surely a second orgasm would make Yennefer more agreeable. _Surely._

Yennefer’s gasps turn into moans and she rocks her hips into Geralt’s hand. Geralt drops his head to suck a kiss into her flesh and she shudders, rolling her hips faster and faster until she comes with a cry, throwing her head back into Geralt’s chest.

The pair of them stay like that for a time, exchanging body heat and soft kisses. And Jaskier, for the first time in his life, holds his tongue.

They untangle and Yennefer stands with a contented sigh. “Come on then, Bard,” she says.

It takes a moment for him to register that she’s spoken.

She quirks an eyebrow when he doesn’t immediately respond. “You’re disturbingly silent.”

He blinks. He can’t imagine what he looks like. Trussed, Geralt’s come sticking to his chest, cock straining and painfully full.

She narrows her eyes, places the back of her hand on his forehead.

Geralt’s voice floats over to him. “Is he sick? Feverish? Should we call a medic?” Yennefer snorts.

Jaskier turns to face Geralt, cheeks flushing. There’s a indignant tangent coiling in his throat but it vanishes when Yennefer takes his hands in hers.

“I think you’ve earned a good fucking,” she says.

His breath hitches and he nods. She guides him over to the headboard and instructs him to lie on his back. She retrieves two lengths of rope and loops them around his wrists before securing them to the headboard. “Remember what I told you.”

“One for slow, two for stop,” he repeats and grins. He feels almost giddy. Bubbly and light as he lies on his back and stares up at his lovers.

Yennefer purses her lips and studies Jaskier. “Can I blindfold you?” she asks.

He thinks for a moment. “No,” he says after a moment. “I want to see you both.”

She nods and comes to lay next to him, propping her head up with her hand. “I did want to fuck you tonight,” she muses, running her forefinger down his chest. “But I don’t think you’d survive two rounds.”

He opens his mouth to retort, challenge her, but Geralt stops him with a huff. “Don’t start,” he says.

Geralt positions himself between Jaskier’s thighs and lathers his hand in oil. He strokes his cock to fullness and there’s a hunger in his eyes as he looks down at Jaskier. A hunger Jaskier knows.

He matches Geralt’s gaze with a ferocity and need.

Geralt slides his hands under Jaskier’s thighs and lifts on leg onto his shoulder, cockhead ghosting Jaskier’s slick heat. All Jaskier can do is watch as Geralt lines up their bodies and slowly pushes into him.

He groans, pushes back against Geralt. But Geralt’s grip is firm, the slide of his cock agonisingly slow.

“ _Fuck,”_ Jaskier hisses, “ _please_ Geralt.”

Geralt stops. Shifts.

Then pulls out completely.

Jaskier groans, throws his head back and bucks his hips. “You… _arse.”_

Geralt smirks. “Eloquent.” 

Jaskier gasps. “You’re _enjoying_ this. Both of you.”

“Maybe,” Geralt quips.

“Gods, _fuck. Please.”_

Geralt pushes forward again, breaches Jaskier once more. Doesn’t break eye contact as he inches into him.

Jaskier lets out a string of curses, squeezes his eyes shut. Nothing compared to that feeling of Geralt being fully seated inside of him. The stretch and the fullness of it. While Yennefer’s body was curled into his, whispering filth in his ear.

Melitele herself could float into the room at that moment, in all her buxom majesty, offer him wine and virgins for all eternity and he would turn her down. Nothing could compare to _this._

Geralt sets a slow rhythm, lazily thrusting in and out of Jaskier, as if he had nowhere else to be. Jaskier’s cock drools and he balls his hands into fists.

Geralt doesn’t let him accommodate to any distinct pace, slowing and stopping as he pleases. Speeding up and thrusting _hard_ at indeterminate intervals.

Yennefer strokes his cock and he arches his back, pants in response.

“Can you feel him, Jaskier,” she mewls, “growing closer and closer.”

Jaskier moans. “Not yet,” he whispers, “just a bit longer.” He wanted to savour it, wanted this exact moment to last forever. Yennefer’s hand vanishes and Geralt slows to a stop.

They both simply quiver and _breathe._ The humid air is so thick, it may as well be fog.

“Go,” he whispers and Geralt does. Slams into him with abandon until the only sound in the room is the lewd noise of skin slapping against skin and his own gasps and moans.

Yennefer’s hand comes to stroke him again as Geralt fucks into that _fucking_ spot. He arches up, curses and splutters. His hole flutters and he feels Geralt twitch inside of him. 

The ring vanishes.

And Geralt says: “come for me, Jaskier.”

Everything goes white. He transcends for a second. Meets the gods. All while his cock pulses and spurts spend onto his stomach.

There’s nonsense dripping from his lips and Geralt ruts into him, chasing his own orgasm as Jaskier floats back to earth. Geralt cries out, pumps Jaskier full of his own spend and collapses with a gasp.

He’s only vaguely aware of Yennefer’s slick fingers sliding into his mouth, cooing _something_ lurid in his ear. Though it takes a moment for him to piece everything back together. 

He swallows thickly, head hazy.

Someone unties his hands and his arms flop back onto the bed.

“You ok, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks as she turns his head to inspect him.

“Perfect,” he replies and smiles. And she smiles back with a fondness that always catches him off guard.

“You were right, though,” he says after a second.

“Oh?”

“I don’t think I could have handled a round two.”

Geralt snorts.

*

After the three of them had cleaned themselves up, Yennefer had the bright idea of simply _portaling_ them to Geralt’s bed on the first floor. Jaskier’s limbs may have turned to jelly, but he was still a capable adult with two working legs. Portals were excessive even in the most dire of situations.

The three of them fall into a heap on the bed and Jaskier huffs out something between a groan and a laugh. Geralt is definitely groaning, however. Glowering and muttering about his abject disdain towards portals.

“You call _me_ dramatic,” Jaskier says to Yennefer and she prods him in turn.

“You _are_ dramatic. I am being practical.”

Geralt sits up and tugs the comforter and sheets off the bed, pulling them from under Jaskier and Yennefer’s bodies before throwing them across the room.

“What did the blankets do to you?” Jaskier says.

Geralt turns to look at him. “It’s _hot.”_

Jaskier hums. “Fair. That is a punishable offence.”

Yennefer stands and retrieves a small tub of salve. She takes his hands and rubs a sizeable amount onto his wrists, despite the fact that the red lines were already fading.

“Thank you,” he says, after a time. “Both of you.” A loaded statement, dual purpose. _Thank you for loving me and thank you for letting me love you._ Yennefer almost flinches, and there was a time, long ago, when Geralt had done the same.

Jaskier had always been allowed softness in his life. His mother had always said he came out her womb swathed in silks and furs. Yennefer and Geralt hadn’t been allowed such luxuries. 

At some point, his incessant, nagging love would sink in. At some point – both Geralt and Yennefer would have to forgive themselves for the people they had to become in order to survive. Survival wasn’t the end goal anymore, it didn’t have to be, there was _more_ to life.

Geralt moves and settles behind him, spooning their bodies together, kisses the crown of his head and Yennefer comes to lie against his front.

“Next time I will fuck you,” she says and throws an arm over his hip.

“I will hold you to that, Sorceress.” 

She hums and closes her eyes.

Geralt's breathing evens out behind him and he holds them both tighter to his body. 


End file.
